“I don’t think I shall find it difficult,” said Annis, with a faint smile. “And I fancy Jurby won’t either!” she added, twinkling across at her dresser, who was sitting on the forward seat, holding her mistress’s jewel-box on her angular knees. “Little Tom’s last encounter with Jurby was a very near-run thing, I promise you, Maria! Indeed, I am persuaded that had I not chanced to come into the room at that moment she’d have spanked him—as well he deserved! Wouldn’t you, Jurby?”

Her dresser replied austerely: “Tempted I may have been, Miss Annis, but the Lord gave me strength to resist the promptings of the Evil One.”

“Oh, no, was it the Lord who gave you that strength?” said Annis, quizzing her. “I had thought it was my intervention that saved him!”

“Poor little fellow!” said Miss Farlow charitably. “So high-spirited! Such quaint things as he says! I’m sure I never saw such a forward child. Your sweet little goddaughter, too, Annis!”

“I fear it’s useless to ask me to go into raptures over infants in arms,” said Annis apologetically. “I daresay I shall like both children well enough when they are older. In the meantime I must leave it to their mama, and to you, to dote on them.”

Miss Farlow realized that dear Annis had the headache, which was the only possible explanation for her want of enthusiasm over her nephew and niece. She said: “Now, why do you let me rattle on when I am persuaded you have the headache? That is not treating me as you should, or as I wish you to! There is nothing so irritating to the nerves as being obliged to attend to fireside chatter—not that this is the fireside, of course, though the hot brick I have under my feet keeps me as warm as toast—when one is not feeling in good point. And it wouldn’t surprise me, my love, if it is the weather which has made your head ache, for a cold wind frequently gives me a sort of tic, and the wind is very sharp today—not that we are conscious of it in the carriage, which I am sure is the most comfortable one imaginable, but there is bound to be a draught, and we mustn’t forget that you stood talking to Sir Geoffrey for several minutes before you got into it. That was what started the mischief, depend upon it! I expect it will go off when you are safely home again, and in the meantime I shan’t tease you by talking to you. Are you sure you are warm enough? Let me give you my shawl, to put round your head! Jurby will hold your hat, or I will. Now, where did I put my smelling-salts? They should be in my reticule, for I always put them there when I go on a journey, because one never knows when one may need them, does one? But they don’t seem to be—Oh, yes, here they are! They had slipped down to the bottom, and were under my handkerchief, though goodness knows how they can have got under it, for I distinctly recall putting them on top of everything else, so that they would be handy. I often think how extraordinary it is that things move by themselves, which no one can deny they do!”

She continued in this way for several minutes, and when Annis declined the shawl and the smelling-salts, wished that they had thought to bring a pillow to put behind Annis’s head, or that it were possible to make her a tisane. In desperation, Annis shut her eyes, and after drawing Miss Jurby’s attention to this, and telling her that they must be as quiet as mice, because Miss Annis was just dropping off to sleep, she at last subsided.

Annis had no headache, nor was she depressed at leaving Twynham Park. She was bored. Possibly the bleak weather, though it hadn’t made her head ache, had affected her spirits, making her feel, most unusually, that the future was as gray and as unpromising as the sky. Lady Wychwood had tried to keep her at Twynham for a few more days, prophesying that it was going to snow, but Annis could not be persuaded to extend her visit, even if it was going to snow, which she thought extremely unlikely. Appealed to, Sir Geoffrey said: “Snow? Pooh! Nonsense, my love! Far too much wind for that, and nothing like cold enough! Naturally we should be happy to keep Annis with us, but if she has engagements in Bath we should neither of us wish to deter her from keeping them. What’s more, if it did snow she will be perfectly safe with Twitcham on the box.”

So Annis had been allowed to set forth without further hindrance from her anxious sister-in-law, privately thinking that if it really did snow she would be better off in her own house in Bath than immured at Twynham Park. No snow fell, but no gleam of sunlight broke through the clouds to enliven the gloom of a sodden landscape; and a north-easterly wind did nothing to alleviate the discomforts of a March day. Her spirits were understandably depressed, and she was only roused from a melancholy vision of her probable future when, some eight miles short of Bath, Miss Farlow cried: “Oh, goodness me, has there been an accident? Ought we to stop? Do look, dear Annis!”

Jerked out of her unprofitable meditations, Miss Wychwood opened her eyes. No sooner did they alight on the cause of Miss Farlow’s sudden exclamation that she tugged the check-string, and, as Twitcham pulled up his horses, said: “Oh, poor things! Of course we must stop, Maria, and try what we can do to rescue them from such a horrid plight!”

While her footman jumped down to open the carriage-door, and to let down the steps, she had time to assimilate the details of the mishap which had befallen two fellow-travellers. A gig, with one wheel missing, was lying at a drunken angle at the side of the road, and beside it were standing two people: a female, huddled in a cloak, and a fair young man, who was feeling the knees of the sturdy cob which he had drawn out from between the shafts of the gig, and who said, just as James, the footman, pulled open the door of Miss Wychwood’s carriage: “Well, thank God, at least this bonesetter is none the worse!”

His companion, whom Miss Wychwood perceived to be a very young, and a very pretty girl, replied, with some asperity: “I don’t see much to be thankful for in that!”

“I daresay you don’t!” retorted the young gentleman. “You won’t be called upon to pay for—” He broke off, as he became aware that the slap-up equipage which had just swept round a bend in the road had come to a halt, and that its occupant, a dazzlingly lovely lady, was preparing to descend from it. He gave a gasp, pulled off his modish beaver, and stammered: “Oh! I didn’t see—I mean, I didn’t think—that is to say—”

Miss Wychwood laughed, and relieved him from his embarrassment, saying, as she alighted from her carriage: “Did you suppose anyone could be so odiously selfish as not to stop? Not I, I promise you! The same thing happened to me once, and I know just how helpless it makes one feel when one loses a wheel! Now, what can I do to rescue you from this horrid predicament?”

The girl, eyeing her warily, said nothing; but the gentleman bowed, and said: “Thank you! It is excessively good of you, ma’am! I shall be very much obliged to you if you will direct them, at the next posting-house, to send a chaise here, to carry us to Bath. I am not familiar with this part of the country, so I don’t know—And then there is the horse! I can’t leave him here, can I? Perhaps—Only I don’t like to ask you to find a wheelwright, ma’am, though I think a wheelwright is what is chiefly needed!”

At this, his companion intervened, announcing that a wheelwright was not what she needed. “Ten to one he wouldn’t come at all, and even if he did come, whoever heard of a wheelwright mending a wheel on the road? Particularly a wheel that has two broken spokes! It would be hours before we reached Bath, and you must know that it is of the first importance that I should be there not a moment later than five o’clock! I might have known how it would be when you meddled in what is quite my own affair, for of all the mutton-headed people I ever was acquainted with you are the most mutton-headed, Ninian!” she said indignantly.

“Let me remind you, Lucy,” retorted the gentleman, flushing up to the roots of his fair hair, “that the accident was no fault of mine! And, further, that if I had not meddled, as you choose to call it, in your affair you would have found yourself at this moment stranded miles from Bath! And if we are to talk of mutton-heads—!” He broke off, controlling himself with a visible effort, set his teeth, and said in the icy voice of one determined not to allow his anger to get the better of him: “I shall not do so, however!”

“No, don’t!” said Annis, considerably amused by this interchange. “You really have no time to indulge in recriminations at just this moment, have you? If it is a matter of importance to you to reach Bath before five o’clock, Miss—?”

She left a pause, her brows raised questioningly, but the youthful lady before her did not seem to be very willing to fill it. After hesitating for a few moments, she stammered: “If you please, ma’am, will you just call me Lucilla? I—I have a very particular reason for not wishing anyone to know my surname—in case they come in search of me!”

“They?” enquired Miss Wychwood, wondering what kind of an adventure she had stumbled on.

“My aunt, and his father,” said Lucilla, nodding towards her escort. “And very likely my uncle too, if he can be persuaded to bestir himself!” she added.

“Good God!” exclaimed Miss Wychwood, her eyes dancing. “Can it be that I am assisting in an elopement?”

The haste with which both the lady and the gentleman repudiated this suggestion was attended by so much vehemence, and with so much loathing, that Miss Wychwood was hard put to it not to burst out laughing. She managed to keep her countenance, and said, with only a tiny tremor in her voice: “I beg your pardon! Indeed, I can’t think how I came to say anything so shatter-brained, for something seemed to tell me at the outset that it was not an elopement!”

Lucilla said, with dignity: “I may be a sad romp, I may be a little gypsy, and my want of conduct may give people a disgust of me, but I am not lost to all sense of propriety, whatever my aunt says, and nothing could prevail on me to elope with anyone! Not even if I were madly in love, which I’m not! As for eloping with Ninian, that would be a nonsensical thing to do, because—”

“I wish you will keep your tongue, Lucy!” interrupted Ninian, looking very much vexed. “You rattle on like a regular bagpipe, and see what comes of it!” He turned towards Annis, saying stiffly: “I cannot wonder at it that you were misled into supposing that we are eloping. The case is far otherwise.”

“Yes, it is,” corroborated Lucilla. “Far, far otherwise! The truth is that I am escaping from Ninian!”

“I see!” said Annis sympathetically. “And he is helping you to do it!”

“Well, yes—in a way he is,” Lucilla admitted. “Not that I wished him to help me, but—but the circumstances made it very difficult for me to stop him. It—it is all rather complicated, I’m afraid.”

“It does seem to be,” agreed Annis. “And if you are going to explain it to me—not that I wish to be vulgarly inquisitive!—how would it be if you were to get into my carriage, and allow me to convey you to wherever it is in Bath that you wish to go?”

Lucilla cast a somewhat longing look at the carriage, but shook a resolute head. “No. It is very kind of you, but it would be too shabby of me to leave Ninian behind, and I won’t do it!”

“Yes, you will!” said Ninian. “I have been wondering how to get you to Bath before you are quite frozen, and if this lady will take you there I shall be very much obliged to her.”

“I will certainly take her there,” said Annis, smiling at him. “My name, by the way, is Wychwood—Miss Annis Wychwood.”

“And mine, ma’am, is Elmore—Ninian Elmore, entirely at your service!” he responded, with great gallantry, “And this is—”

“Ninian, no!”cried Lucilla, much flustered. “If she were to tell my aunt where I am—”

“Oh, don’t be afraid of that!” said Annis cheerfully. “Never shall it be said of me that I’m an addle-plot, I promise you! I collect that you are going to visit a friend, or perhaps a relation?”

“Well,—well not precisely! In fact, I haven’t met her yet!” disclosed Lucilla, in a rush of confidence. “The thing is, ma’am, I am going to apply for the post of companion to her. She says—I have brought the notice I saw in the Morning Post with me, but most foolishly packed it in my portmanteau, so that I can’t immediately show it to you—but she says she requires an active and genteel young lady of willing disposition, and that applicants must call at her residence in North Parade between the hours of—”